We sit at the red garden galvanised table
with punched out holes to let the rain fall through
the kitchen smells of roast chicken.
– the chicken I salvaged from the cat’s jaws.
I slouch at the table – I’m the wolf
that had its stomach sewn full of river stones.
My mother doesn’t mention the baby growing inside me.
Once it was all she could think to talk about.
Mother and baby homes adoption bastard child.
I prop up a table leg with a folded cornflake box.
My mother forks pink chicken into her mouth.
I watch the cat lick itself clean.
To submit to HeadStuff, please read our submission guidelines.